But finding all eccentric in our times,
Religion into superstition turn'd,
Justice silenc'd, exiled, or in-urn'd;
Truth, faith, and charity reputed crimes;
The young men destinate by sword to fall,
And trophies of their country's spoils to rear;
Strange laws the ag'd and prudent to appal,
And forc'd sad yokes of tyranny to bear;
And for no great nor virtuous minds a room-
Disdaining life, thou shroud'st into thy tomb.
When misdevotion every where shall take place,
And lofty orators, in thund'ring terms,
Shall move you, people, to arise in arms,
And churches hallow'd policy deface;
When you shall but one general sepulchre
(As Averroes did one general soul)
On high, on low, on good, on bad confer,
And your dull predecessors rites controul-
Ah! spare this monument, great guests! it keeps
Three great justiciars, whom true worth did raise;
The Muses' darlings, whose loss Phoebus weeps;
Best men's delight, the glory of their days.
More we would say, but fear, and stand in awe
To turn idolaters, and break your law.
Do not repine, bless'd soul, that humble wits
Do make thy worth the matter of their verse:
No high-strain'd Muse our times and sorrows fits;
And we do sigh, not sing, to crown thy hearse.
The wisest prince c'er manag'd Britain's state
Did not disdain, in numbers clear and brave,
The virtues of thy sire to celebrate,
And fix a rich memorial on his grave.
Thou didst deserve no less; and here in jet,
Gold, touch, brass, porphyry, or Parian stone,
That by a prince's hand no lines are set
For thee the cause is, now this land hath none.
Such giant moods our parity forth brings,
We all will nothing be, or all be kings.
ON THE DEATH OF A NOBLEMAN IN SCOTLAND,
AITHEN, thy pearly coronet let fall;
Clad in sad robes, upon thy temples set
The weeping cypress, or the sable jet.
Mourn this thy nurseling's loss, a loss which all
Apollo's choir bemoans, which many years
Cannot repair, nor influence of spheres.
Ah! when shalt thou find shepherd like to him, Who made thy banks more famous by his worth, Than all those gems thy rocks and streams send forth?
His splendour others glow-worm light did dim:
Sprung of an ancient and a virtuous race,
He virtue more than many did embrace.
He fram'd to mildness thy half-barbarous swains;
The good man's refuge, of the bad the fright,
Unparallell'd in friendship, world's delight!
For hospitality along thy plains
Far-fam'd a patron; and a pattern fair
Of piety; the Muses' chief repair;
Most debonnaire, in courtesy supreme;
Lov'd of the mean, and honour'd by the great;
Ne'er dash'd by fortune, nor cast down by fate;
To present and to after times a theme.
Aithen, thy tears pour on this silent grave,
And drop them in thy alabaster cave,
And Niobe's imagery here become;
And when thou hast distilled here a tomb,
Enchase in it thy pearls, and let it bear,
"Aithen's best gem and bonour shrin'd lies here."
FAME, register of time,
Write in thy scroll, that I,
Of wisdom lover, and sweet poesy,
Was cropped in my prime;
And ripe in worth, though green in years, did die.
JUSTICE, Truth, Peace and Hospitality,
Friendship, and Love being resolved to die,
In these lewd times, have chosen here to have
With just, true, pious their grave;
Them cherished he so much, so much did grace,
That they on Earth would chuse none other place.
WHEN Death, to deck his trophies, stopt thy breath,
Rare ornament and glory of these parts!
All with moist eyes might say, and ruthful hearts,
That things immortal vassal'd were to Death.
What good in parts on many shar'd we see,
From Nature, gracious Heaven, or Fortune flow;
To make a master-piece of worth below,
Heaven, Nature, Fortune gave in gross to thee.
In honour, bounty, rich-in valour, wit,
In courtesy; born of an ancient race;
With bays in war, with olives crown'd in peace;
Match'd great with offspring for great actions fit.
No rust of times, nor change, thy virtue wan
With times to change; when truth, faith,love,decay'd,
In this new age, like fate thou fixed staid,
Of the first world an all-substantial man.
As erst this kingdom given was to thy sire,
The prince his daughter trusted to thy care,
And well the credit of a gem so rare
Thy loyalty and merit did require.
Years cannot wrong thy worth, that now appears
By others set as diamonds among pearls:
A queen's dear foster, father to three earls,
Enough on Earth to triumph are o'er years.
Life a sea voyage is, death is the haven,
And freight with honour there thou hast arriv'd;
Which thousands seeking, have on rocks been driven:
That good adorns thy grave which with thee liv'd.
For a frail life, which here thou didst enjoy,
Thou now a lasting hast, freed of annoy.
OBSEQUIES OF THE BLESSED PRINCE JAMES.
KING OF GREAT BRITAIN.
LET holy David, Solomon the wise,
That king whose breast Egeria did inflame,
Augustus, Helen's son, great in all eyes,
Do homage low to thy mausolean frame;
And bow before thy laurel's anadem;
Let all those sacred swans, which to the skies
By never-dying lays have rais'd their name,
From north to south, where Sun doth set and rise.
Religion, orphan'd, waileth o'er thy urn;
Justice weeps out her eyes, now truly blind;
To Niobes the remnant virtues turn;
Fame but to blaze thy glories stays behind
I' th' world, which late was golden by thy breath,
Is iron turn'd, and horrid by thy death.
FOND wight, who dream'st of greatness, glory, state;
And worlds of pleasures, honours, dost devise;
Awake, learn how that here thou art not great
Nor glorious: by this monument turn wise.
One it enshrineth sprung of ancient stem,
And (if that blood nobility can make)
From which some kings have not disdain'd to take
Their proud descent, a rare and matchless gem.
A beauty here it holds by full assurance,
Than which no blooming rose was more refin'd,
Nor morning's blush more radiant ever shin'd;
Ah! too, too like to morn and rose at last!
It holds her who in wit's ascendant far
Did years and sex transcend; to whom the Heaven
More virtue than to all this age had given;
For virtue meteor turn'd, when she a star.
Fair mirth, sweet conversation, modesty,
And what those kings of numbers did conceive
By Muses nine, and Graces more than three,
Lie clos'd within the compass of this grave.
Thus death all earthly glories doth confound,
Lo! how much worth a little dust doth bound.
"FAR from these banks exiled be all joys,
Contentments, pleasures, music (care's relief)!
Tears,sighs,plaints,horrours, frightments,sad annoys,
Invest these mountains, fill all hearts with grief.
"Here, nightingales and turtles, vent your moans;
Amphrisian shepherd, here come feed thy flock,
And read thy hyacinth amidst our groans;
Plain, Echo, thy Narcissus from our rocks.
"Lost have our meads their beauty, hills their gems,
Our brooks their crystal, groves their pleasant shade:
The fairest flow'r of all our anadems
Death cropped hath; the Lesbia chaste is dead!"
Thus sigh'd the Tyne, then shrunk beneath his urn;
And meads, brooks, rivers, hills, about did mourn.
THE flow'r of virgins, in her prime of years,
By ruthless destinies is ta'en away,
And rap'd from Earth, poor Earth! before this day
Which ne'er was rightly nam'd a vale of tears.
Beauty to Heaven is fled, sweet modesty
No more appears; she whose harmonious sounds
Did ravish sense, and charm mind's deepest wounds,
Embalm'd with many a tear now low doth lie!
Fair hopes now vanish'd are. She would have grac'd
A prince's marriage-bed! but, lo! in Heaven
Blest paramours to her were to be given !
She liv'd an angel, now is with them plac'd.
Virtue is but a name abstractly trimm'd,
Interpreting what she was in effect;
A shadow from her frame which did reflect,
A portrait by her excellences limm'd.
Thou whom free-will or chance hath hither brought, And read'st, here lies a branch of Maitland's stem, And Seyton's offspring; know that either name Designs all worth yet reach'd by human thought.
Tombs elsewhere use life to their guests to give, These ashes can frail monuments make live.
ANOTHER ON THE SAME SUBJECT.
LIKE to the garden's eye, the flow'r of flow'rs,
With purple pomp that dazzle doth the sight;
Or, as among the lesser gems of night,
The usher of the planet of the hours;
Sweet maid, thou shinedst on this world of ours,
Of all perfections having trac'd the height;
Thine outward frame was fair, fair inward pow'rs,
A sapphire lanthorn, and an incense light.
Hence the enamour'd Heaven, as too, too good
On Earth's all-thorny soil long to abide,
Transplanted to their fields so rare a bud,
Where from thy Sun no cloud thee now can hide.
Earth moan'd her loss, and wish'd she had the grace
Not to have known, or known thee longer space.
HARD laws of mortal life!
To which made thralls we come without consent, Like tapers, lighted to be early spent,
Our griefs are always rife,
When joys but halting march, and swiftly fly,
Like shadows in the eye:
The shadow doth not yield unto the Sun,
But joys and life do waste e'en when begun.
WITHIN the closure of this narrow grave
Lie all those graces a good wife could have:
But on this marble they shall not be read,
For then the living envy would the dead.
THE daughter of a king of princely parts,
In beauty eminent, in virtues chief;
Loadstar of love, and loadstone of all hearts,
Her friends' and husband's only joy, now grief;
Is here pent up within a marble frame,
Whose parallel no times, no climates claim.
VERSES frail records are to keep a name,
Or raise from dust men to a life of fame;
The sport and spoil of ignorance; but far
More frail the frames of touch and marble are,
Which envy, avarice, time, ere long confound,
Or misdevotion equals with the ground.
Virtue alone doth last, frees man from death;
And, though despis'd, and scorned here beneath,
Stands grav'n in angels' diamantine rolls,
And blazed in the courts above the poles.
Thou wast fair virtue's temple, they did dwell,
And live ador'd in thee; nought did excel,
But what thou either didst possess or love,
The Graces' darling, and the maids of Jove;
Courted by Fame for bounties, which the Heaven
Gave thee in great; which, if in parcels given,
Too many such we happy sure might call;
How happy then wast thou, who enjoy'dst them all?
A whiter soul ne'er body did invest,
And now, sequester'd, cannot be but blest;
Enrob'd in glory, midst those hierarchies
Of that immortal people of the skies,
Bright saints and angels, there from cares made free,
Nought doth becloud thy sovereign good from thee.
Thou smil'st at Earth's confusions and jars,
And how for Centaurs' children we wage wars:
Like honey flies, whose rage whole swarms consumes,
Till dust thrown on them makes them veil their
plumes.
Thy friends to thee a monument would raise,
And limn thy virtues; but dull grief thy praise
Breaks in the entrance, and our task proves vain;
What duty writes, that woe blots out again:
Yet love a pyramid of sighs thee rears,
And doth embalm thee with farewels and tears.
THOUGH marble porphyry, and mourning touch,
May praise these spoils, yet can they not too much;
For beauty last, and this stone doth close,
Once Earth's delight, Heaven's care, a purest rose.
And, reader, shouldst thou but let fall a tear
Upon it, other flow'rs shall here appear,
Sad violets and hyacinths, which grow
With marks of grief, a public loss to show.
Relenting eye, which deignest to this stone
To lend a look, behold here laid in one,
The living and the dead interr'd; for dead
The turtle in its mate is; and she fled
From earth, her
To bound
choos'd this place of grief thoughts, a small and sad relief. His is this monument, for hers no art Could frame; a pyramid rais'd of his heart.
Instead of epitaphs and airy praise,
This monument a lady chaste did raise
To her lord's living fame; and after death
Her body doth unto this place bequeath,
To rest with his, till God's shrill trumpet sound,
Though time her life, no time her love could bound.
TO SIR WILLIAM ALEXANDER.
WITH THE AUTHOR'S EPITAPH.
THOUGH I have twice been at the doors of Death,
And twice found shut those gates which ever mourn,
This but a lightning is, truce ta'en to breathe,
For late-born sorrows augur fleet return.
Amidst thy sacred cares, and courtly toils,
Alexis, when thou shalt hear wand'ring fame
Tell, Death hath triumph'd o'er my mortal spoils,
And that on Earth I am but a sad name;
If thou e'er held me dear, by all our love,
By all that bliss, those joys Heaven here us gave,
I conjure thee, and by the maids of Jove,
To grave this short remembrance on my grave:
"Here Damon lies, whose songs did sometime grace
The murmuring Esk :-may roses shade the place."
Aн, silly soul! what wilt thou say
When he, whom Earth and Heaven obey,
Comes man to judge in the last day?
When he a reason asks, why grace
And goodness thou wouldst not embrace,
But steps of vanity didst trace!
That day of terrour, vengeance, ire,
Now to prevent thou shouldst desire,
And to thy God in haste retire.
With wat❜ry eyes, and sigh-swoll'n heart,
O beg, beg in his love a part,
Whilst conscience with remorse doth smart.
That dreaded day of wrath and shame
In flames shall turn this world's huge frame,
As sacred prophets do proclaim.
O! with what grief shall earthlings groan
When that great judge, set on his throne,
Examines strictly every one!
Shrill-sounding trumpets through the air
Shall from dark sepulchres each where
Force wretched mortals to appear.
Nature and Death amaz'd remain
To find their dead arise again,
And process with their judge maintain.
Display'd then open books shall lie,
Which all those secret crimes descry
For which the guilty world must die.
The Judge enthron'd, whom bribes not gain,
The closest crimes appear shall plain,
And none unpunished remain.
O! who then pity shall poor me?
Or who mine advocate shall be?
When scarce the justest pass shall free.
All wholly holy, dreadful King,
Who freely life to thine dost bring,
Of mercy save me, mercy's spring!
Then, sweet Jesu, call to mind
How of thy pains I was the end,
And favour let me that day find.
In search of me thou, full of pain,
Didst sweat blood, death on cross sustain:
Let not these suff'rings be in vain.
Thou supreme Judge, most just and wise,
Purge me from guilt, which on me lies,
Before that day of thine assize.
Charg'd with remorse, lo! here I groan,
Sin makes my face a blush take on;
Ah! spare me, prostrate at thy throne.
Who Mary Magdalen didst spare,
And lend'st the thief on cross thine ear,
Show me fair hopes I should not fear.
My prayers imperfect are and weak,
But worthy of thy grace them make,
And save me from Hell's burning lake.
On that great day, at thy right hand,
Grant I amongst thy sheep may stand,
Sequester'd from the goatish band.
When that the reprobates are all
To everlasting flames made thrall,
O to thy chosen, Lord, me call!
That I one of thy company,
With those whom thou dost justify,
May live blest in eternity.
Too long I follow'd have my fond desire,
And too long painted on the ocean streams;
Too long refreshment sought amidst the fire,
Pursu'd those joys which to my soul are blames.
Ah! when I had what most I did admire,
And seen of life's delights the last extremes,
I found all but a rose hedg'd with a brier,
A nought, a thought, a masquerade of dreams.
Henceforth on thee, my only good, I'll think;
For only thou canst grant what I do crave;
Thy nail my pen shall be; thy blood, mine ink;
Thy winding-sheet, my paper; study, grave:
And, till my soul forth of this body flee,
No hope I'll have but only, only thee.
To spread the azure canopy of Heaven,
And spangle it all with sparks of burning gold;
To place this pond'rous globe of Earth so even,
That it should all, and nought should it uphold;
With motions strange t' endue the planets seven,
And Jove to make so mild, and Mars so bold;
To temper what is moist, dry, hot, and cold,
Of all their jars that sweet accords are given;
Lord, to thy wisdom's nought, nought to thy might:
But that thou shouldst, thy glory laid aside,
Come basely in mortality to 'bide,
And die for those deserv'd an endless night;
A wonder is, so far above our wit,
That angels stand amaz'd to think on it.
WHAT hapless hap had I for to be born
In these unhappy times, and dying days,
Of this now doting world, when good decays,
Love's quite extinct, and virtue's held a scorn!
When such are only priz'd by wretched ways,
Who with a golden fleece them can adorn;
When avarice and lust are counted praise,
And bravest minds live, orphan like, forloru!
Why was not I born in that golden age,
When gold was not yet known, and those black arts
By which base worldlings vilely play their parts,
With horrid acts staining Earth's stately stage?
To have been then, O Heaven! 't had been my bliss;
But bless me now, and take me soon from this.
Now doth not live, but is fled up to Heaven;
Or if she live, it is not without crime
That she doth use her power,
And she is no more virgin, but a whore;
Whore, prostitute for gold:
For she doth never hold her balance even;
And when her sword is roll'd,
The bad, injurious, false, she not o'erthrows, But on the innocent lets fall her blows.
"BRIGHT Portals of the sky,
Emboss'd with sparkling stars;
Doors of eternity,
With diamantine bars,
Your arras rich uphold;
Loose all your bolts and springs,
Ope wide your leaves of gold;
That in your roofs may come the King of kings. "Scarf'd in a rosy cloud,
He doth ascend the air;
Straight doth the Moon him shroud
With her resplendent hair:
The next encrystall'd light
Submits to him its beams;
And he doth trace the height
Of that fair lamp which flames of beauty streams.
"He towers those golden bounds
He did to Sun bequeath;
The higher wand'ring rounds
Are found his feet beneath:
The milky-way comes near,
Heaven's axle seems to bend,
Above each turning sphere
That, rob'd in glory, Heaven's King may ascend.
"O Well-spring of this all!
Thy Father's image vive;
Word, that from nought did call
What is, doth reason, live!
The soul's eternal food,
Earth's joy, delight of Heaven,
All truth, love, beauty, good,
To thee, to thee, be praises ever given.
"What was dismarshall'd late
In this thy noble frame,
And lost the prime estate,
Hath re-obtain'd the same,
Is now most perfect seen;
Streams, which diverted were
(And, troubled, stray'd unclean)
From their first source, by thee home turned are.
"By thee, that blemish old
Of Eden's leprous prince,
Which on his race took hold,
And him exil'd from thence,
Now put away is far;
With sword, in ireful guise,
No cherub more shall bar
Poor man the entrance into Paradise,
"By thee, those spirits pure,
First children of the light,
Now fixed stand, and sure,
In their eternal right;
Now human companies
Renew their ruin'd wall;
Fall'n man, as thou mak'st rise,
Thou giv'st to angels, that they shall not fall.
"By thee, that prince of sin,
That doth with mischief swell,
Hath lost what he did win,
And shall endungeon'd dwell;
His spoils are made the prey,
His fanes are sack'd and torn,
His altars raz'd away,
And what ador'd was late, now lies a scorn.
"These mansions pure and clear,
Which are not made by hands,
Which once by him 'joy'd were,
And his, the in not stain'd, bands,
Now forfet'd, dispossest,
And headlong from them thrown,
Shall Adam's heirs make blest,
By thee, their great Redeemer, made their own.
"O! Well-spring of this all!
Thy Father's image vive;
Word, that from nought did call
What is, doth reason, live!
Whose work is but to will;
God's co-eternal son,
Great banisher of ill,
By none but thee could these great deeds be done.
"Now each ethereal gate
To him hath open'd been;
And Glory's King in state
Now come is this High Priest
Not without blood addrest,
MORE oft than once Death whisper'd in mine ear,
"Grave what thou hear'st in diamond and gold;
I am that monarch whom all monarchs fear,
Who have in dust their far-stretch'd pride uproll❜d.
All, all is mine beneath Moon's silver sphere;
And nought, save virtue, can my power withhold:
This, not believ'd, experience true thee told,
By danger late when I to thee came near.
As bugbear then my visage I did show,
That of my horrours-thou right use might'st make,
And a more sacred path of living take:
Now still walk armed for my ruthless blow;
Trust flattering life no more, redeem time past,
And live each day, as if it were thy last."
THE SHADOW OF THE JUDGMENT.
ABOVE those boundless bounds, where stars do move,
The ceiling of the crystal round above,
And rainbow-sparkling arch of diamond clear,
Which crowns the azure of each undersphere,
In a rich mansion, radiant with light,
To which the Sun is scarce a taper bright,
Which, though a body, yet so pure is fram'd,
That almost spiritual it may be nam'd,
Where bliss aboundeth, and a lasting May,
All pleasures heightening, flourisheth for aye,
The King of Ages dwells. About his throne,
Like to those beams day's golden lamp hath on,
Angelic splendours glance, more swift than aught
Reveal'd to sense, nay, than the winged thought,
His will to practise: here do seraphim
Burn with immortal love; there cherubim,
With other noble people of the light,
As eaglets in the Sun, delight their sight;
Heaven's ancient denizens, pure active powers,
Which, freed of death, that cloister high embowers,
Ethereal princes, ever-conquering bands,
Blest subjects, acting what their king commands;
Sweet choristers, by whose melodious strains
With glory Heaven, the Earth to crown with grace. Skies dance, and Earth untir'd their brawl sustains.
"Stars, which all eyes were late,
And did with wonder burn,
His name to celebrate,
In flaming tongues them turn;
Their orby crystals move
More active than before,
And entheate from above,
Their sovereign prince laud, glorify, adore.
"The choirs of happy souls,
Wak'd with that music sweet,
Whose descant care controuls,
Their Lord in triumph meet;
The spotless sp'rits of light
His trophies do extol,
And, arch'd in squadrons bright,
Greet their great Victor in his capitol.
"O glory of the Heaven!
O sole delight of Earth!
To thee all power be given,
God's uncreated birth;
Of mankind lover true,
Endurer of his wrong,
Who dost the world renew,
Still be thou our salvation, and our song." From top of Olivet such notes did rise,
When man's Redeemer did transcend the skies.
Mixed among whose sacred legions dear,
The spotless souls of humanes do appear,
Divesting bodies which did cares divest,
And there live happy in eternal rest.
Hither, surcharg'd with grief, fraught with annoy, (Sad spectacle into that place of joy!)
Her hair disorder'd, dangling o'er her face,
Which had of pallid violets the grace;
The crimson mantle, wont her to adorn,
Cast loose about, and in large pieces torn;
Sighs breathing forth, and from her heavy eyne,
Along her cheeks distilling crystal brine,
Which downward to her ivory breast was driven,
And had bedew'd the milky-way of Heaven,
Came Piety at her left hand near by,
A wailing woman bare her company,
Whose tender babes her snowy neck did clip,
And now hang on her pap, now by her lip:
Flames glanc'd her head above, which once did glow,
But late look pale, a poor and ruthful show!
She, sobbing, shrunk the throne of God before,
And thus began her case to him deplore:
"Forlorn, wretch'd, desolate! to whom should I My refuge have, below or in the sky, But unto thee? See, all-beholding King, That servant, no, that darling thou didst bring On Earth, lost man to save from Hell's abime, And raise unto those regións above time;
|